And yet my ghost keeps coming.
Like he walks straight through walls.
I unlock my suite door and step inside, already planning how I’m going to throw on sweats, turn on the TV, and rot my brain from the inside with enough wine to knock out an elephant.
But the smell hits me like a kick to the teeth.
It’s him again.My ghost. Woodsy and warm. Spicy and masculine. I breathe it in and feel dizzy as the scent slams straight into the top of my skull.
He never comes this early.
My ghost only ever shows up at night. I find his smell lingering in the morning, but it always fades by the afternoon.
This doesn’t make any sense.
I look around, heart racing. Did he break in here during the middle of the day? I thought it was hard enough getting through security at night, but the daytime is straight-up suicidal.
How could anyone pull something like that off?
“Oh my god,” I say, hands flying to my mouth as I stare at my little dining table beside my kitchenette.
It’s back. In all the years my ghost has been visiting, this has never happened, not once. I walk over to the table on shaking legs, heart slamming into my ears.
My Chapstick is back.
It’s standing upright with a rose behind it.
Suddenly, I feel like someone’s watching. I look around in a panic, caught between running, screaming, and grabbing a kitchen knife.
But there’s nobody nearby.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, voice trembling, choking on my own fear and excitement. “What happened, ghost?”
There’s no answer. There never is.
But he’s also never left a gift before.
I can’t understand it. Something must’ve changed, but I don’t know what. I pick up the little black tube and pop off the lid.
I’m absolutely sure he used it. More than positive. The knowledge burns in me, but there’s no way I could even know something like that.
I raise the tube to my lips and swipe it across. I wait like something might happen. Only there’s nothing.
I lick slowly, wanting to taste him. I close my eyes, breathing his smell rapidly. There’s only wax on my tongue.
I clutch the tube tightly as I lift the rose. It’s just a regular flower. I sniff it and smile as the sweetness fills me.
There’s no way he could’ve known about my conversation with Kate today. I didn’t tell anyone I planned on letting her know I was leaving. It’s possible my ghost is aware of my upcoming marriage to Finn, and a part of me thinks this gesture is about that.
Like he’s congratulating me. Or marking his territory. Or sending some other impossible-to-interpret message.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, waiting for a response. There’s nothing. “I had a really hard day today, but this helps.”
I put the flower in a thin vase with a little water and stare at it for a few minutes, wondering if my future husband will treat me the way my ghost does, with this strange obsessive reverence. But I really doubt it.
Chapter 5
Cormac
